


setting the stage

by aly_raena



Category: Twosetviolin, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Crack Treated Seriously, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Invasion of Privacy, M/M, Multi, Self-Indulgent, Smut, it's not b or e, it's you, not permanent tho, reader is female
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:54:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25650955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aly_raena/pseuds/aly_raena
Summary: Excerpt:That is when you smell the scent of blood clinging to Eddy. Brett notices, voice becoming harsh and unforgiving. Orders Eddy to clean up the droplets trailing from the doorway to the living room; you’re too distracted with examining the inside of the house to notice.Eddy kneels and you gasp lightly. What a vision he is, wiping the blood on the floor. You and Brett seem to agree, both of you raking your hungry gaze on Eddy. Brett waits by the bathroom, supporting himself on the wall. A roll of clothes (robes for both of them) rests in his hand.In which the authorwanted some actiontries to describe what went into her mind when seeingthesetweets.
Relationships: Brett Yang/You, Eddy Chen/Brett Yang, Eddy Chen/Brett Yang/You, Eddy Chen/You
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	setting the stage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chlochloebear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chlochloebear/gifts).



> To [Chloe](https://twitter.com/embracingchloe?s=20), [Bella](https://twitter.com/sacrilegiousbee?s=20), and [Chloris](https://twitter.com/chloris_clown?s=20). They saw this before anyone else, beta'd it and everything. Would have not continued this without you three.
> 
> To [Jess](https://twitter.com/urlocaljess?s=20) and [wannabibea](https://twitter.com/wannabibea?s=20). Your tweets started it all. (See:[ Jess' tweet](https://twitter.com/urlocaljess/status/1288849798339022849?s=20), [wannabibea's tweet](https://twitter.com/wannabibea/status/1288992113921650688?s=20)).
> 
> And to you, readers. Let this satisfy your taste for blood. 
> 
> [Read the original drabble here.](https://twitter.com/aly_raena/status/1288867615411118085?s=20)

The thing is all flames start with a spark. 

A little tongue of concentrated heat develops into a gargantuan fire, wild and uncontrollable, burning down anything in its path until all that’s left are smoke and ashes. 

Likewise, a random sentence (“I see droplets on the ground”, “the fact you thought all this from that single sentence”) uncovers a rabbit hole that leads into an undiscovered place. And so it begins. You’re now falling into open space—

Until you hit ground. Groaning and wincing from the pain on your back, you slowly sit up from the side of the road. You’re too disoriented from the free fall that it takes you a full minute to notice a familiar weight on your neck— your camera, all pristine and ready to be used. You laugh to yourself, checking out the SD card to see the amount of storage available.

It’s more than enough. 

You look around the street you’re in, noting the lack of attention you’re getting. You wonder if you’re visible to the people right now as you watch a lady walk past your sitting form. Maybe not. You get up from the road, camera in hand, fingers already photographing your surroundings: the road, the street signs, the shops lining the sidewalks of the street.

You take pictures of the people too, however scarce they are. You have fun zooming on the birds perched on some rooftops. You maneuver the angle of your camera in so many ways to frame your shots perfectly. You take in the smell in the air: sharp and a bit metallic. Blood, you guess. 

Muffled gunshots come from somewhere behind you. You keep that little detail stored away for later. Two people go on a chase across from you, so you take a video of them running. You cut it off after a few seconds. 

Now, where’s the one you are looking for?

Ah, you see him. He’s in a hurry, jogging ahead of you. Tall, curly-haired, gold glasses sitting on his nose. His black turtleneck accentuates his broad shoulders (you internally bet someone would kill for it, and someone probably _did_ try), and those gray jeans hugs his behind snugly. 

Mmm.

Eddy Chen. 

Your heart does a little traitorous flip as you raise your camera and press the shutter, successfully capturing his entirety. You check the result of the photo first before going after Eddy. You don’t get too close, letting him lead both of you to his destination.

You pick apart his brain, viewing his memories as you jog in pace with him. And then you notice some of his important memories— His initiation–

> The silence was glaringly loud before: “Congratulations, Chen. You’ve been recruited to the agency.” A man nods to him across the table. Confusion floods Eddy. What agency?

training–

> He hits ground after another punch to the gut, making him groan into the mat. His trainer shouts, “get up!” and he does. He readies himself for another round, thinking through his plan of attack. He breathes in quietly. _Pang._ He strikes.

first kill–

> The man thrashes in his binds. He knows that his information wasn’t enough, and the barrel of the gun pointed at him helps affirm that.
> 
> “Please,” he begs to Eddy, face drenched in tears. “I have a family, _please._ ”
> 
> Eddy keeps his face impassive and quiets his panicking mind. He steadies his grip before pressing the trigger, watches as the head gets blown back from the force. His trainer pats him on the back.
> 
> “Good work, Agent.”

first mission– 

> There’s a crackle in his earpiece. “Agent 21, what’s your position?”
> 
> He doesn’t answer, busy being quiet as to not alert anyone to his presence. He lets his partner (Agent 27) whisper what his approximate location is. Eddy (or rather, 21) waits for the last guard to reach him. 
> 
> A movement to his left and he immediately raises his gun to fire. The body crumbles to the floor, a head shot being the killing blow. 21 sighs in relief and speaks to his earpiece. “Agent 21 here. It’s secure.”

You’re intoxicated with want as you catch a glimpse of his honeypot missions, the people he fucked on their choice of surface, with various states of undress. The thank-ling-ling-I’m-alive- _we’re_ -alive sex with Brett Yang (Agent 19, his mind reminds you) post-mission, adrenaline coursing through their veins.

Speaking of... both of you are headed to Brett and Eddy’s safe house. Eddy _definitely_ has just finished a mission. A solo mission, his memory reminds you. You smirk at his back, understanding the tension of muscles you can see beneath his clothes.

He turns to an even more deserted street and anticipation curls in your gut. You two must be nearing their house now. You take more pictures, getting every single detail you could. Neighboring houses, cars, that one puppy cowering in its doghouse. Your thoughts drift to the puppy, feeling sorry for what your mind conjured. 

But now is not the time. 

Eddy slows as he stops in front of a house. Nondescript, fits in with all the others (likely the whole point), cozy at first glance. You hazard a guess that this one has the best view of the street and probably the most secure.

He unlocks the door, with you hastily going in after. You both remove your shoes, placing them at the rack near the door. Eddy disarms himself, carefully storing everything in a hidden compartment. You watch somewhere off the side, fascinated by the amount of weapons he carried. He straightens after tucking in his last knife. He then moves to the living room where Brett waits.

That is when you smell the scent of blood clinging to Eddy.

Brett notices, voice becoming harsh and unforgiving. Orders Eddy to clean up the droplets trailing from the doorway to the living room; you’re too distracted with examining the inside of the house to notice.

Eddy kneels and you gasp lightly. What a vision he is, wiping the blood on the floor. You and Brett seem to agree, both of you raking your hungry gaze on Eddy. Brett waits by the bathroom, supporting himself on the wall. A roll of clothes (robes for both of them) rests in his hand.

He murmurs that Eddy would look good in red, and when you skim over what he’s thinking of doing, you’re inclined to agree. He motions for Eddy to get inside the bathroom as Eddy stands.

You follow them inside before Eddy can close the door. Moving away from him as he locks it, you lean on the counter near Brett. You switch the camera from photo to video, placing it down on the counter. You don’t press record yet, but you make sure it’s angled towards the two as Eddy strips for Brett. 

You stay to see Brett wash the turtleneck while Eddy stands naked behind him, drawing out the anticipation. Goosebumps are visible on Eddy’s skin, as on yours. Your eyes stray to his bare chest; you hum in appreciation at his well-defined abs. You trace the blood still on Eddy, going down, and down, and down.

What wouldn’t you do to fuck yourself on _that._

Brett draws it out as much as he can. By the time he’s finished, Eddy’s already antsy with arousal. Brett meets Eddy’s eyes through the mirror, and you see him smirk as Eddy struggles to remain still.

Brett turns around after hanging Eddy’s top to dry. You focus on the bulge in his shorts that’s making your toes curl and your breath hitch. He takes one step towards Eddy, painfully slow. Eddy holds Brett’s stare, eyes never straying once.

Brett’s attention is caught on the patch of red on Eddy’s side, the colour a stark contrast on the younger’s pale skin. He reaches out a hand, smears the blood even more. Eddy tenses and lets out a small sound, control fraying at the edges. Brett continues until the blood’s all over Eddy’s torso, then steps back to admire him.

Eddy presents himself, eyes closed and hands tucked behind him; bares his throat as an act of submission. His thighs strain from the effort of staying still. Brett didn’t spare an inch of Eddy’s torso; blood decorates Eddy’s front entirely. It pools in the dips and curves; stray drops trail down Eddy’s thighs.

_I was right,_ you read off Brett’s thoughts. _Eddy looks_ divine _in red._

“Shower, Eddy.” Brett’s tone is dark and even. He waits for Eddy to open his eyes and move before systematically stripping himself. Brett keeps it clinical, not interested in giving a strip-tease.

And you drink him in. You’ve known that body from Eddy’s eyes. You’re familiar with how he looks in the throes of pleasure–

> Brett swears as he takes Eddy in front of the mirror, the heat and pressure overwhelming him as he fucks Eddy’s ass. He doesn’t pay attention to Eddy; keen on getting himself off before paying any sort of attention to the man bent forward between his legs. 
> 
> Eddy locks his stare at Brett through the mirror. He memorizes how Brett moves, muscles flexing, a hand on his hair, the other on Eddy’s waist. The visual stimulation is enough to send him over, but he holds back.
> 
> It’s worth it, in the end. Brett comes, jaw slacked, a lengthened shout of “fuck!”, hips shivering but still moving, lips tinted with blood from the force of an earlier bite. With his climax, he reaches around to finish Eddy off.
> 
> (Not that Eddy needs it. All that he wants is to watch Brett.)

> “Eddy, Eddy,” he pants on his lover’s shoulder. “More, faster.”
> 
> Eddy gives in, thrusting harder, faster, until Brett is mindless and sobbing against the bed sheets. Until his voice is hoarse from the screaming. Until he comes, choking out Eddy’s name like a prayer, eyes closed from the force of his orgasm.
> 
> Eddy follows, but keeps his eyes open. Watching Brett fall apart around him brings greater satisfaction than his own release.

You _know_ him, intimately, from Eddy. Every mark, every scar. You also know his mind. It doesn’t compare to seeing him right in front of you.

Brett Yang is _glorious._ A Greek god. A perfect sculpture come to life. It’s as if someone made the definition of “ideal man” into flesh and it’s him. Brett Yang.

(Also Eddy Chen. ~~Gods~~ , _Ling Ling, what have you created inside your_ mind _?_ )

You’ll probably black out if you come at this point. Your thighs are damp with arousal, breathing uneven from pure want. You start recording instead, and prepare yourself to leave. You’re slow enough to see Brett walk towards Eddy in the shower, his hands guiding the younger man to rest on the wall.

Brett meets your eyes as he gets the lube from the side cabinet. You turn away immediately, closing the door behind you.

You take in a breath, trying to stave off thoughts of sleeping with them. You need to explore their house, not drool over them. Eddy’s moans reach your ears, a distraction you entertain before you force yourself to focus. 

There’s a door at the edge of your sight that grabs your attention. You filter through Brett’s memories, searching for an instance where he opens it. Practice room, you find out. You tilt your head, amused at the parallel with the real TwoSetViolin. 

You repeat this as you tour the house: searching through Brett’s and Eddy’s minds for anything that catches your attention. It isn’t their actual home, which makes you a bit disappointed. It’s just a safe house, but luckily there’s enough things here to keep you occupied.

You open the door of their bedroom as Brett’s and Eddy’s moans get more frequent, more shameless. 

They’re close, then.

You step into their bedroom, making a beeline for the closet. You find some of the suits they wore on previous missions. You like the material of the suits, rubbing the cloth with your fingers. You hum absent-mindedly as you view them using it, moving outside the closet to explore more.

Picture frames decorate the side table, part of their cover story as residents. There’s Eddy smiling at the beach, candid. Brett posing in the same place, hair windswept. You smile, recalling how these pictures affected you back in the real world.

You don’t notice that the only noise in the house was you trying to hum Erlkönig. 

Suddenly you’re pinned to the wall with a knife between your ribs. You gasp out in equal parts pain and delight. So you can be seen and touched, huh. You feel blood trickle down your body as you stare at Agent 19/Brett Yang. You don’t know which is which anymore, he was blurring the lines between the actual person and the assassin.

“Where’s the camera?” you ask, teasingly. His growl goes straight to your core. He’s holding you up, pressed against you to keep you from falling. You let out a moan (borne of pleasure more than pain, you snicker to yourself), as he twists the blade deeper. You whimper just the way he likes, hiding your smile when he notices. It’s the sound Eddy makes when he’s aching for more.

Brett’s expression turns predatory - and _oh._ How that look makes you heady with desire. How that capacity to kill makes you wet and wanting, how it makes you want to rut against him like a bitch in heat. 

Fuck.

“Who are you?” He asks. The promise of death in his tone makes you clench your thighs and you look up at him, eyes dilated with hunger he wasn’t expecting. He digs his knife deeper and your eyelids flutter.

“Your honeypot, Agent 19,” you breathe out. “New assignment.”

He narrows his eyes. “I haven’t received any orders yet. How did you get your hands on this information?”

You grin. “I have my ways.” You grimace as he slams you to the wall again, his knife cutting more of your flesh. You laugh, amused at the way he man-handles you. You want to egg him on.

Your attention fleets to Eddy who sits calmly on the bed. You smirk, picking out the image of his handler from his mind. Clearing your throat, you then imitate her voice. “By the way, Agent 21, congratulations on a job well done. For a rookie. We will not tolerate further mistakes.”

Both men tense. “What the fu—”

You cut Eddy off. “No, I’m not your handler, nor am I in any way affiliated with her. I’m just another target who knows too much, agents.” _Take the bait, take the bait, damn it all._

“Honeypot, you say?” _Yes, fuck!_

“You can kill me after, agent,” you purr against him. You don’t miss the interested gleam in his stare. You whine when Brett removes the knife from you, your blood now gushing between you two. Three minutes until your death. Make it count, agent.

You raise your hand to reverently brush your fingers over Brett’s cheekbone.

“What information do you have?” he asks, letting you continue touching him. Butterflies erupt in your stomach when he permits you. He still has you pinned against the wall, not that you were complaining. This way you can feel him as both of you get drenched in your blood. You’re silently thrilled by his length pressing on your thigh.

Attraction to blood _and_ killing, you jot down mentally. Same as Eddy.

“Good question,” you smile at him. “Make me tell you.”

“Kiss her, Brett.” Ah, there he is. Dominant Eddy Chen.

Brett surges forward. You gasp as his lips meet yours, opening your mouth for him to explore. He presses even closer, stopping the blood flow from your wound by just a bit. He licks into your mouth, tasting what you offered to him. You submit to his wandering tongue, recognizing the flavour of his bubble tea.

You giggle into the kiss. Of course he drank bubble tea today. His hand finds your wound and scrapes against the flesh. You cry out in his mouth, the mix of pain and pleasure just how you want it. You somehow find the strength to wrap your legs around his waist, and he doesn’t stop you. His teeth find your lip, biting it and drawing blood. He licks every drop from your mouth.

He pulls away with a questioning look. You observe his lips, red with _your_ blood. You smile. He doesn’t move, waiting for you to speak. You roll your eyes and give in. “This is what I know about you.” And you tell him.

“You love blood. Warm, red, your spoils of war. You get off from it, don’t you? That’s why you fuck Eddy after every mission. Every successful kill. You dream of people dying on your hands. You love them screaming in pain, love hearing them beg for their lives. Your ledger drowns in crimson and you _adore_ that. That’s why you’re the top agent. You don’t see killing as a job; you’re doing what you love. So you excel.”

His missions flood your mind and you sigh in amusement. You see his victims (targets, you correct), pleading to him, saying what Brett wants to hear. They don’t know him like Eddy does. Like you do, now. The more they beg, the more Brett would be less merciful.

You slowly grind against him. He matches you, thrust for thrust. “You don’t care much for quick, clean kills. You want blood and torture; you _crave_ it like a man craves water when he’s dying from thirst. You need to see red on Eddy’s skin when you fuck, lick it, even drink it from him. Your life revolves in killing, Brett Yang, and you won’t replace it for anything.”

“This is why they asked to kill you.” he realizes.

You nod at him. “I know too much, yes.”

“And Eddy?” He pins your hands above you, fascinated by the way you’re getting off while nearing death. You hiss after a particularly sharp thrust.

You dissolve into moans before catching yourself. “He followed you. Found he likes it too. He likes you fucking him after, or him fucking you. Cut from the same cloth, but not really.”

You look away for a moment to wink at Eddy who’s reclining on the bed. He has your camera and is now taking pictures of you and Brett. Turns out, he thinks Brett looks good in red too.

You chuckle as you face Brett again, now breathing even slower. Time’s up. You know how much he loves to see light go out from his victims eyes, so you let him see you die. You sob and laugh simultaneously when he damages your wound even more.

Brett ruts against you, and you take care to look in his eyes as you near the edge. You lean your head back to the wall as you moan a final time, reaching your climax a second before you’re gone.

∆|∆

You wake up from daydreaming, in front of the half-written work you have in your documents. Shaking your head from amusement, you continue writing.

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/aly_raena)!


End file.
